The man at the machine looked up, and pleasantly answered: “It is, but the Supervisor is not in yet. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“It may be you can. I am on my way to Meeker’s Mill for a little outing. Perhaps you could tell me where Meeker’s Mill is, and how I can best get there.”
The man at the map meditated. “It’s not far, some eighteen or twenty miles; but it’s over a pretty rough trail.”
“What kind of a place is it?”
“Very charming. You’ll like it. Real mountain country.”
This officer was a plain-featured man of about thirty-five, with keen and clear eyes. His voice, though strongly nasal, possessed a note of manly sincerity. As he studied his visitor, he smiled.
“You look brand-new—haven’t had time to season-check, have you?”
“No; I’m a stranger in a strange land.”
“Out for your health?”
“Yes. My name is Norcross. I’m just getting over a severe illness, and I’m up here to lay around and fish and recuperate—if I can.”